The Letter
by Michaudka16
Summary: Sherlock is not dead. He and John fall in love. Moriarty returns and kidnaps John. Sherlock has to save John.


A Johnlock Fanfiction:

The Letter

By K. Michaud

I

It is raining. To John, it seems like every day begins the same way. The sky is gray, no rays of light can penetrate the constant cloud cover. No happiness can spring from his heart. Since _his_ death, it seems as if all of London is crying with John. Rain greets him every morning. Cold and dark, like the cage that John is living in. His world is empty. His joy, spirit, and will to survive have died long ago. Now all he has is a memory. A memory that will constantly remind him of what his life had been, and what it could have been with Sherlock.

John is sitting in his armchair, holding a revolver in his right hand. He stares blindly out the window. The same window through which _he_ used to peer as his fingers formed sweet melodies with his violin. Specks of dust spin mindlessly around him, forming their own movement. John can almost hear the ghost of a tune swirling through the still air. The dust is sent spinning as he takes a deep breath. John tries to hold on to the beautiful, yet painful reminder of _him_. He wishes that, like the path of the dust particles, he could have altered his friend's fate. John wishes that he could have somehow willed Sherlock to stay. To fight.

Suddenly the gun feels heavy as he balances it in his hands, weighing his options. He can die, thus be reunited with Sherlock. The only person in the world who he has ever truly loved. Or he can live. He can have a full and…maybe not happy...life. That is what Sherlock would want him to choose, right? To fulfill his dreams, to love again, to have a family, and grow old with loved ones. The only person John can ever imagine loving, is unfortunately forever gone from this world. John makes his choice, raising the gun to his head.

"I will be with you soon, Sherlock. You don't have to wait for me anymore. I am coming." He begins to press lightly on the trigger. A flood of relief rushes through him, "Sherlock, I love

y-" 

A shrill knocking on the door startles John. Jumping from his chair, he points the revolver at a startled Ms. Hudson, who is carrying a small basket which is most likely filled with biscuits.

"Well, I am not sure who you were expecting to come through that door," Ms. Hudson says as she eyes the revolver in Johns shaking hands, "But I certainly hope you were not expecting me! I would hate to think my friend is plotting my demise!"

Ms. Hudson laughs and walks toward John, who lowers the gun to his side. She sits in _his _chair across from John. Anger begins to boil in John's veins. He clenches his fists, knuckles turning white. He stands with his back straight, like a soldier, as he glares at the woman. _That is Sherlock's chair, meant only for him! How dare sh- _Ms. Hudson's chirpy voice interrupts his thoughts.

"Are you ok, dear? Would you like a biscuit?" She asks with a smile spreading across her face as she holds out a basket filled to the rim with warm biscuits.

Ms. Hudson is staring at John with encouraging eyes, but he is not looking at her. He is thinking of how close he had been to being with Sherlock again. When he doesn't respond, she shakes the basket a little. John thinks, _she just walked in on me about to blow my brains out...and she thinks I wants a _biscuit_? _ Instead of saying anything, John nods and takes one from the basket.

"How have you been, John?" Ms. Hudson asks with hopeful, shining eyes.

John looks at the biscuit in his hand. His fingers picking off small pieces as he searches his head for a reasonable answer. He closes his eyes. All John can think is, _Horrible. Dead. Like my entire world has been thrown into a blazing flame_. He can feel the tears building behind his closed eyes. John wills them to go away, he does not want Ms. Hudson to see him like this, though everyone who he has been associating with for the past several years of his life is aware of what he is going through. John takes in a deep breath and opens his eyes. His gaze meeting Ms. Hudson intense stare.

"I have been getting along." Says John, trying not to let his face show any emotions.

"That's a boy!" Ms. Hudson says joyfully while giving John a pat on the back.

John looks at her with questioning eyes. _How is that a good thing?_ Sure he was 'getting along', but that does not mean he is without pain. It does not mean that he has forgotten his best friend. It does not mean the emotional wounds that Sherlock has left on him have healed, at most they have only scabbed over. Every time he passes Tapas Brindisa Restaurant, whenever people speak of him in hushed voices, thinking John cannot hear, the wounds are cut open. Many times, John would find himself on the roof of St. Bart's Hospital looking out at the city of London, wanting to see what his friend saw during the last moments of his life. Often, John would run his fingers over the bloodstains where Moriarty fell, where his brain matter dripped from the bullet hole. The red-brown spot remains, and no amount of rain or weather can wear it away. As long as the stain remains, Sherlock will remain in John's heart, unable to be weathered by the elements.

"Maybe I should go…" Says an uncomfortable Ms. Hudson. John's eyes snap back to hers. He had not realized that he had been away, lost in thought for several minutes. "I think that would be for the best." Said John, not wanting to sound rude. But it is true, he does not want to be seen like this, like a fragile fabric slowly falling apart as its string is pulled. He wants people to think he is strong, like the soldier he used to be. The one who fought in Afghanistan, who has seen death, been the cause of death.

"Oh, before I go," Ms. Hudson says as she fiddles with something in her pocket, struggling to get it out. "This was left at your door." She says handing him a crinkled letter.

The envelope is yellow with age, and on it there are specks of dirt and stains of…blood? John thinks, _the carrier of this letter must be an interesting man_. He flips the envelope over in his hand so he can see who sent it. There is no address, just John's name, written in beautiful cursive handwriting, on the front. John freezes. His face turning to a hard mask. He recognizes this handwriting, it was _his._ How could it be Sherlock? Sherlock is dead, although by the condition of the envelope, this easily could have been written before the fall…

_Maybe Sherlock isn't- _no_!_ _Don't you dare think it, John, don't you give yourself that false hope. You saw him, bloody, dead, his skull shattered on the pavement._

John flicks his wrist, sending the letter flying across the room. He does not want to see where it lands. He hopes it will be gone forever. Someone, probably Mycroft, was just playing a joke on him. John does not want to encourage this sick game, nor his hope that Sherlock could be alive. He knows Sherlock is dead. Molly examined him. Dead. Like an eternal winter, buried in the ground, his body cold as ice.

John turns to Ms. Hudson, who has her hands over her mouth in surprise. "But, John, don't you want to read-" She begins to ask before John interrupts her.

"I think you should go now, Ms. Hudson."

"Ok, dear." She says acceptingly.

Ms. Hudson gathers her biscuits and shuffles out of John's flat. As the door closes, John lets out an exasperated sigh, half riddled with grief. All he wants is to move on, well not really _move on_, he never wants to forget Sherlock, he just wants the pain to subside. He collapses back into his chair, allowing his head to fall into his hands as he weeps uncontrollably. His vision clouds as he lets himself slip into darkness.

II

The sun was shining brightly, rays of light are cast into the flat, bringing light into the dark room. John awakes to the sound of birds as they chirp outside his window. The beep of a car horn, and familiar city sounds. The sky is blue and cloudless. He feels as if the sunlight is lifting his spirit, he feels almost joyful. The light seeps into his soul, lifting it from the eternal pit of misery in which he has been cast into for three long years.

John is not sure how long he had been asleep. He lets out a loud groan as he rises from his chair and stretches his arms above his head. John slowly makes his way into the kitchen to make himself some tea. His feet drag on the flood as he sluggishly moves to the countertop to prepare the warm drink. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, moaning loudly. The sobbing fit left his eyes red and puffy. John curses himself for being so emotional.

John sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea. He picks up the morning paper and begins to read. To him, there are not many interesting stories, although there was a murder in the Underground last night. A woman was found on the subway tracks, her head appeared to have been beaten in with a blunt object. He knows that if this happened three years earlier, he and Sherlock would be jumping for joy at the thrill of a new case. But, being in his current situation, John cannot bring himself to even consider further investigation on the subject. John puts the paper aside and finishes his breakfast, then meanders back to the living room to catch up on some work.

After sitting down in his chair, John opens his patients' files, examining them closely. Being a doctor has its perks, he can save a life in the event of an emergency. On the other hand, people expect him to always be in tip-top condition, to have a clear mind in the work area. Of course, John has anything _but _a clear mind, which is why he was told to continue his work at home and not come into the office until he has his head on straight. Sherlock. All he can think about, all the time. Sherlock.

John's brain is pounding against his skull. Once again he lifts his palms to his eyes and presses into them. More waves of pain rush to his head. He moves his hands to press against his ears, which are ringing as if someone is blowing a foghorn into them. For the second time that day, John is thrown into hysteria over his best friend. This fit only lasts a few minutes because, through his blurry vision, he can see the corner of an old yellow envelope protruding from under the bookshelf. A war is being fought in his head. Curiosity versus common sense. _Either I read the letter and possibly choke to death on tears_ or _I ignore it and never know what (supposedly) Sherlock wrote in the final hours of life, which will no doubt launch another fit of depression_. Eventually curiosity wins him over.

John walks with haste to the other side of the room, leaning one shoulder against the bookshelf as he leans down to grasp the envelope with his left hand. His fingers play with the seal, slowly prying it open. He allows the envelope to fall to the floor as he grasps the letter. He hold it as if it is a buoy and he is drowning, being crushed by waves of emotion. John unfolds the crumpled paper and begins to read. As his eyes dart from line to line, his palms begin to sweat. Although he finished reading, his eyes are still wide, glued to the page. One question rings through his mind. _What?_

John begins to read again, this time out loud, so that the words will sink in. "Dearest John," he whispers, his voice cracking as he says his own name "by the time you read this, I will be dead." John felt moisture rise in his eyes, "I wish I could explain, but I do not think, given the danger that surrounds you and I both, that it would be in our best interest. I want you to know that what I did is only for your benefit. I may seem ridiculously self-centered, but believe me when I say this, I will do anything to protect you." A tear trickles down John's cheek, "Your loyalty is unfailing. I have never been completely open with anyone, not even you, until now, when I have the shroud of death surrounding myself." John made a choking sound as he say 'death'. He does not want to imagine Sherlock, bloody and broken on the pavement below St. Bart's Hospital. "John, all my life I have been alone, without friends and people to care for me, except for that damned Mycroft." A wet chuckle pops from John's lips, he is now sure that this letter is in fact genuine, no one else could simulate Sherlock's detest towards his own brother. He continues to read, "So here, I will make my confession; I was walking on a dark road, not an actual road of course, just a figurative one. I travelled town that path for my entire life. Until I met you. There was something about you."

The door to the flat opens, "Not now Ms. Hudson, I'm busy!"

John hears the sound of the door close_, I have been terribly rude to the poor woman. _He continues to read, his voice trailing over every word.

"The way you look at me. How I feel when you yell at me for playing my violin at 3:00 in the morning, God knows why. I don't see anything wrong with a little music to lighten the mood. I knew you were special from the moment I saw you, the-MY brave little soldier." John felt warmth spread across his cheeks. "The truth is-"

John was interrupted before he could finish the last sentence.

"The truth… is I am alive, John Watson."

III

John's stomach plummets. _That is not Ms. Hudson's voice. That is the voice of- but how_… Slowly, John turns to face the man standing in his flat.

"Well?" asks the man impatiently "Anything to say? Maybe a 'hello'? or 'how've you been?'"

John stands there. Staring. _How the hell_…But he doesn't care how he did it. How he defeated death. John runs across the room and punches Sherlock Holmes straight in the jaw.

Sherlock keels over in pain, holding his palm against his bloody lip. "I suppose I deserved that." He says calmly as he straightens back up, wiping the blood from his mouth. They stare for a moment, as the wall (death) that had separated them, collapses. It feels as if the world has stopped spinning. Then simultaneously, they throw their arms around each other. John cannot hold back his tears. He breathes in Sherlock's familiar sent, which he thought he would never be able to smell again. John can feel his head spinning. Then darkness.

IV

John lies in his bed asleep. The sun is shining through the curtains creating the illusion that he is being wrapped in the arms of an angel. John's eyes flutter open. Soft warm light. Light that he had not woken to since…_Sherlock!_

John quickly pushes himself into a sitting position in his bed, excited at the return of his friend, then reality hits him.

"It was only a dream." John tells himself as he squirms out of the bed. His happiness melts into depression. _It felt so real_. He walks to the bathroom to shower and get ready for yet another day in hell.

John enjoys the feeling of warm water cascading down his naked body. To him it is comfort, a hug. He is not sure if droplets of water or tears, are streaming down his face. He does not really care, no one is here to see him fall apart. Over the sound of the falling water, he can hear the tuning of a violin. _Just my imagination_. John takes a deep breath then steps out of the shower. He walks to the mirror and clears the fog away with his hand. The face looking back at him is old. Not the John he used to be, not the strong soldier. His gaze falls to the ground. _Forget about Sherlock._ John dries himself off, then gets dressed. He puts on his favorite jumper and slides on a pair khakis.

John clunks down the stairs, tracing his hand down the wall to keep his balance. His eyes scan the room as he wanders to the kitchen. John waves halfheartedly at the man standing by the window. "Morning." He yawns loudly pulls his arms above his head to stretch his stiff back. _Wait…who the hell…._John's arms slowly fall to his side as he turns to face the man.

Sherlock stands by the window, wearing his familiar dark grey coat, purple button-up shirt, and blue scarf. He is holding his violin, his blue-green eyes fixed on John. The sunlight shining behind him makes his silhouette gleam. An angel. The rays capture the swirling dust, making it look as if Sherlock is wrapped in a blanket of glimmering light. John watches as the pale man raises his left hand to run his long fingers through his bedhead. Tussling his curly, black hair. He is skinnier than John remembers. Sherlock gives him a faint smile. John's stomach flips as he sees the mark he had left on Sherlock's lower lip. He cautiously walks to John, afraid of being hit again. Sherlock stops just three feet short of him, his back straight as he looks down at the shorter man. John breath catches as Sherlock reaches towards him. _A hug? Since when was Sherlock affectionate?_ John doesn't care. He leans into Sherlock as they wrap their arms around each other. No matter how mad John is at Sherlock, he cannot help but cling to him. His best friend is not dead.

_Not dead_.

"I missed you," Sherlock whispered into John's ear, "every day." His voice sounds relieved, John clutches him tighter.

"I missed you too." says John, "How could you do that to me? Just leave like that? After everything we have been through together, I could have helped you…"

"No, John." Sherlock says as he pulls away from him, staring into his eyes, "You couldn't have, Moriarty was going to kill you, all of you, Ms. Hudson, Lestrade…I had to jump. The snipers had to see me die."

"Snipers?" John raises his eyebrows.

"John," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes, "Why do you always have to make me repeat myself?"

John just stares at Sherlock with a look of disbelief on his face. "Sherlock, can you just explain?"

"Well, it really is not that complicated, John" Sherlock says in an exasperated voice, "There _were_ snipers, Moriarty's snipers, perched all around you and everyone else whom I care about. If I did not die, they would kill you instead. _'I will burn your heart'._"

"Oh…" says John as he looks at his hands, "but why couldn't you tell me that you were alive. Three years, Sherlock. _Three years_."

"I have been hunting for three years. Sniffing out members of Moriarty's network, finally I succeeded and demolished all of the people who wanted to hurt you."

John is speechless.

"I wanted to tell you sooner," says Sherlock, leaning his face into his hands, "but, with the snipers still out there, I….I was afraid...that they would hurt you…oh John, if they had hurt you…"

John lifts his hands and places them over Sherlock's. As they touch, John can feel electric sparks passing between their skin. Sherlock lifts his head and looks at him, tears welling in his eyes. They stare at each other, not breaking the invisible twine that connects them. John bites his bottom lip as one of Sherlock's tears slips halfway down his face, stopping as it hits his sharp cheekbone. Sherlock coughs, getting John's attention. Unknowingly, John has been staring at Sherlock's lips for several seconds, making it quite obvious what he wants.

Shaking his head, John thinks, _Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap! Why do I feel this way? Why is he looking at me like that? Why are his eyes so blue? He is just my flat-mate…right?_

Watching John calmly, Sherlock thinks, _I cannot believe this man, why was he staring hungrily at my mouth? Why are his hands on my face? Why can't I rationalize this? What if….no. I don't think Mr. 'I'm Not Gay' Watson would ever-_

Sherlock's thoughts are broken by John as his face stretches up towards his. They are just inches apart, staring intensely at each other with a longing gaze. John sighs as pulls Sherlock's face down to kiss the tear from his cheek. His lips parting slightly to collect the moisture. Both of the men feel a warm sensation building inside them. Sighing, Sherlock closes his eyes and wraps his arms around John's waist in a loving embrace. He pulls John's lips to his. John is frozen, his face is burning and red. Sherlock's lips are soft, yet urgent as they try to get John's to move with them. Finally, John parts his lips and pushes his face closer into Sherlock's. Their lips move in perfect unison. Then, seemingly too soon, John pushes Sherlock away.

"I- I'm sorry," John says as he holds his left arm awkwardly, "I don't know…what that was."

"Its ok, John," says Sherlock with a pinch of pain in his voice, "it won't mean anything if you don't want it to."

"No- Sherlock, that's not what I meant-" John reaches out towards the man who is now slowly backing away from him. "Sherlock, I-"

"You what, John?" asks Sherlock, eagerly.

"Well if you hadn't interrupted, you would know already." John says irritably.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says in an impatient tone, "please continue."

"Well, what I was going to say," He swallows nervously, "I actually really enjoyed that…"

"Did you now?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Would you maybe…" He pauses and watches John's eyes, trying to deduce what he is thinking "want to try it again?"

John grabs Sherlock's scarf and uses it to pull him against his body. He wraps hand around Sherlock's neck, his fingers twisting in his curly hair, his lips next to Sherlock's ear as he whispers.

"Hell yes."

V

"John…" Sherlock moans as John nibbles on his lip. Sherlock's arms curl around the shorter man's waist, lifting him slightly off his feet so that he does not have to bend down to kiss him. John's lips slip open and he runs his tongue across Sherlock's lower lip. With a sigh of pleasure, he is welcomed in. Their tongues twist together. John giggles as his feet leave the ground and Sherlock holds him in his arms.

"Put me down, you arse!"

"As you wish." Sherlock says as he pushes John backwards onto the couch, "Is that better?"

"Absolutely." John says, giving Sherlock a sly smile. He adjusts himself on the couch so that he is lying down, Sherlock stands awkwardly over him, not knowing what to do. John is reminded that this is Sherlock's first time. The detective has always claimed to be asexual, married to his work, and unsentimental. But now, John has him falling apart at the hinges, Sherlock is giving in to his emotions. John beckons with his hands for Sherlock to join him on the couch. Sherlock is too nervous to move.

"Oh come here, you." Says John as he sits up and once again, grabs Sherlock by his scarf and pulls him on top.

John continues to kiss Sherlock passionately, little moans of pleasure escape his lips. His hands travel farther down Sherlock's body, until they rest on his firm arse. Sherlock tenses for a moment before melting against John. Sherlock's hands make their way to John's hair, there is not enough to curl his fingers through, but enough to grasp so that he can pull his head back, allowing John's neck to be vulnerable to Sherlock's open-mouth kisses. All they want to do is be closer to each other, if they could, they would weld themselves together. They grind their hips together, Sherlock growling in satisfaction. They can feel each other's manhood hardening beneath their clothes. Sherlock's hands wind their way under John's jumper, slowly beginning to pull it up.

"No…" John whimpers, "Not here…oh…lets go to-"

Before John can finish, Sherlock jumps off of him. He reaches down to grab John's hand and pulls him from the couch. They slowly make their way to the bedroom. It is a long journey because Sherlock stops to pin John against the wall to snog him passionately. Eventually the two make it to John's bedroom. They stand next to the bed holding each other as they continue to kiss. John pulls away to look into Sherlock's eyes.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asks anxiously.

Sherlock answers him with a kiss as they fall back onto the bed.

VI

John and Sherlock have never felt more alive. Bare skin rubbing against bare skin. Warmth surrounds John as Sherlock's full lips close around him. John clutches the back of Sherlock's head as it gently bobs up and down.

John gasps, "No, I don't want to come this way."

Sherlock stops moving and releases him. John looks down his body at Sherlock, who is staring at him with questioning blue eyes.

"Then tell me what you want me to do…" says Sherlock as he lowers his head and begins to kiss the inside of John's thigh.

John tugs Sherlock's hair and pulls him up so that they are at the same eyelevel. John leans up towards Sherlock, planting a passionate kiss on his puffy lips as he rolls him over on the bed. John takes a few moments to observe the beautiful man lying underneath him. Sherlock's alabaster skin and his coal black hair. Like some sort of dark angel. John wiggles between Sherlock's legs while his hands reach down to tool with the man's length. Sherlock groans loudly as he leans his head back, exposing his neck. John gives him a few love-bites, marking Sherlock as his. When John feels Sherlock tense, he releases him, not wanting him to finish yet. John grabs Sherlock's legs and hoists them around his waist, propping a pillow under Sherlock to hold him at a better angle. He wets his fingers before gently pushing one after another inside. Sherlock moans, but insists for John to continue. When he thinks Sherlock is ready, John slowly pushes himself in. Sherlock winces in pain, John halts.

"Are you ok?" He asks Sherlock with a worried tone.

"Yes, John," Sherlock moans, "just _move._"

John does as Sherlock asks. He begins slowly, Sherlock gives no signs of discomfort, so he begins to push into him harder. He moves his hand up and down Sherlock to match pace with his thrusts. Moans escape Sherlock's puffy lips. The sounds of pleasure coming from the detective make John even more excited. He pushes harder. Sherlock arcs his back in pleasure as he begins to spill. John follows shortly after. They scream each other's names as the waves of their orgasms wash over them. John collapses onto Sherlock's chest, then rolls off on him, gently pulling out as to not hurt his partner. They lie next to each other as their breathing settles.

"That was amazing." Sherlock whispers, "You are amazing."

In response, John shimmies over to Sherlock, who wraps his arms around him in a loving embrace. John can feel the stickiness between them but doesn't care, nothing will get him to move from this heaven. Sherlock strokes John's hair, humming a sweet melody into his ear. The two men fall asleep together, wrapped in the duvet, never wanting the moment to end.

VII

Sunlight floods the bedroom. John rolls over in bed to face the man lying with him. Sherlock is not awake yet. With his left hand, John reaches up to Sherlock's face to push aside a curl that is blocking his view. His fingers linger on the soft skin. Sparks. For the first time, he gets to admire the perfection of the younger man. The way his dark curls stand out against his pale skin, framing his flawless face. The way his cheekbones define him. Perfect, full lips. John can't resist, he leans over and touches his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes pop open in surprise, then slowly close again as he realizes. Sherlock leans into the kiss, lifting his hand to cup John's cheek, parting their lips slowly.

"Good morning," says John, as he breaks the kiss, "How was your night?"

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares intensely at John, his fingers trace the line of John's bottom lip.

"Unlike anything I have ever experienced in my life…" He says with a smile. "Perfect. How was it for you?"

John sees fear in Sherlock's eyes. He is afraid that he may not have fulfilled John's expectations. To comfort him, John runs his hand down Sherlock's naked form, his arm wrapping around his waist, pulling them closer together. In a swift movement, he pushes Sherlock onto his back and leans over him, placing his hands on either side of the man. "It was exquisite." John breathes as he leans in for a kiss. Sherlock's face burns, as John pulls back to look into his eyes. Cerulean blue. John lies on his back again, thinking about how he feels, what is his next move? _Obviously, Sherlock feels the same as I do….but does he mean it, will it last…or is he just using me for another one of his experiments?_

"Sherlock, I-" John begins to say, then stops, blushing as he looks away from curious man.

"You what, John?" Insists Sherlock, his eyes blazing with interest.

John leans in towards Sherlock, pressing their foreheads together, the tips of their noses touching. He whispers softly, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's surprised expression worries John. _Well shit, now I've ruined it. I said too much too soon_. Sherlock's eyes watch him, wide and unblinking. Sherlock's mind is buzzing, he wants to say something, but he doesn't know what. John begins to turn away, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. He sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, his back facing the detective. Sherlock moves quickly.

"Don't-" Sherlock protests, grabbing Johns hand, his eyes pleading for him to stay, "I…I love you, too."

Sherlock pulls a stunned John back into the bed, and into his arms. John snuggles back into Sherlock, holding him close. _I love you, too._ The words ring through John's head, not quite sinking in. _I…love…you…_ Then it hits him, like a train flying off its tracks. _Sherlock loves me!_

The brown eyes meet the blue eyes, and they do not want to look away. Sherlock leans towards John, reaching for is face. Their lips meet again, gently. Sherlock enjoys the way John's lips feel against his. He had expected John to be rough, like a soldier, but instead he was gentle, like he was clutching a baby bird. Sherlock leans over John, pushing him against the mattress. He rests his head on John's chest, listening to his heartbeat. Sherlock's own heart beats like a drum against his chest. He turns his head slightly to the side to kiss John's tan skin. "I love you, John Watson." John sniffles as Sherlock's midnight curls tickle his nose. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." He plants a kiss in the dark hair. John wraps his arms around the lengthy man laying over him, Sherlock returns the gesture. His hands clutching John, never wanting to let go. They stay like that, slowly sinking into a deep sleep.

VIII

At 2:00 in the afternoon, John's cellphone rings, waking the men from their slumber. Sherlock jolts up, pulling himself out of John's arms as he jumps from the bed. Even though John is disappointed that Sherlock left his side, he still gasps as the younger man stands in front of him. Sherlock's pale body standing out against the dull colors of the room. His hair tousled from sleep. John stifles a giggle as he notices Sherlock's stomach, still messy from the previous night. He had forgotten that they had not cleaned themselves. Sherlock wraps himself in his white robe and circles the bed to answer the call.

"Sherlockkkk," John calls after him, "come back…"

"But, John," says Sherlock with an excited look on his face, "what if it's a case?"

John frowns, _what case can possibly be more important than what we have just shared?_ Sherlock reaches for John's phone, snatching it off the bedside table. He presses 'Answer'.

"Hello?" he snaps into the receiver.

"Uh…hi, John?" says Molly on the other side.

"No, Molly," He says looking exasperated, "this is Sherlock."

"Sher- but," Molly says in confusion "What? Back already?"

"Yes, Molly," John watches Sherlock roll his eyes, "don't make me repeat myself, you know I hate repeating myself."

"Why do you have John's pho-" Sherlock interrupts her again.

"Now tell me, do you have a case or not?" He questions.

"Well, there was a murder in the subway a couple of days ago," she says slowly, hoping she does not get interrupted again, "I was just about to go examine the body, I thought John would be helpful, seeing as he is a doctor and all…"

"Yes, I see." Says Sherlock, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his lips. "Well, obviously you understand that I will be accompanying him."

"Uh, whatever you want, Sherlock," She snaps back, "even if I say no, you will come anyway."

Sherlock smirks, "Why on earth would you not want to see me? It has been _several _months." John can hear a small hint of sarcasm in his voice. Sherlock knows that many people don't like him because of his 'poor social skills'.

John can hear Molly disconnect the call. Understandable, Sherlock is being a bit of an arse.

John squints, his eyebrows squishing together in confusion. _What did Sherlock mean by, 'it's been several months'? _He has just returned…

"Sherlock," begins John, "why did you say it has been several months since you last saw Molly?" John hangs his legs off the side of the bed, ready to stand up in case he wants to punch Sherlock again.

"It's not that complicated," says Sherlock as he kneels in front of John. The soldier notices how vulnerable the detective looks, on his knee like he is begging for forgiveness, "I have several confidants who know I faked my death, they are the ones who helped me achieve it. I tend to visit them." Sherlock runs his hands up and down John's legs. He was trying to distract the John, not wanting to hurt him by having to tell him the truth. But John is persistent. He can feel a knot in his throat. _Why didn't he tell me? Did he not trust me to keep his secret? _

"Sherlock, how many people knew you were alive? Why didn't you tell me" He asks in a shaking voice. He is upset, though he doesn't want Sherlock to know. But of course Sherlock notices everything.

Sherlock begins to count on his fingers, "Molly, Mycroft…" he continues to count, giving names of his homeless network. After about twenty-five names John covers his ears.

"Oh, John," Sherlock rests his chin on the soldier's knee, looking up into his brown eyes, "I couldn't tell you. I needed you to be _genuine_, if you had not played along perfectly, then Moriarty's men would have known…" Sherlock kisses his knee. John puts a finger under Sherlock's chin, lifting it so they he has to make eye contact.

"Ok," John gives up, "can you at least tell me how you did it? Fake your death I mean? I felt for your pulse, Sherlock, you didn't have one. And your head…the blood…how?"

"Secret!" Sherlock smiles, rocking back onto his heels as he stands up, "A magician never shares his secrets, but I will share this…"

Sherlock leans down and kisses John's cheek. "Let's go clean up."

Sherlock pulls him from the bed, taking a moment to scan John's unclothed body. Noting the white stains that he had left on him_. He is so wonderful_, Sherlock thinks. _My brave little soldier_. He takes John's hand and leads him to the bathroom. Sherlock slips out of his robe, leaving it on the bathroom floor. John begins to run the water, making sure it is warm before they step into the shower. Sherlock kisses John's forehead, twisting his arms around his waist. "I love you." He whispers again. The words ring through John's head. That's the third time he has said those words. "You know I love you too." John replies, he tilts his head up to press his lips to Sherlock's. He can feel a smile spread across Sherlock's face. John's hands slide up and down the other man's wet body, memorizing it with his fingertips. Sherlock grabs John's arse, pulling their hips together. John moans loudly as their lengths rub against each other, growing hard. Sherlock bites into John's neck, causing him to whimper softly. His teeth move to John's ears.

"Do you want to try an experiment?" Sherlock asks in a seductive voice.

"Of course." Replies John eagerly.

Sherlock presses John to the wall of the shower. "I have a hypothesis." he says in a rough voice, "If we make love right now, then we are going to enjoy it _very_ much."

IX

They emerge from the shower after an hour and a half of lovemaking. John had allowed Sherlock to perform many 'experiments' on him, some of them were more pleasurable than others. He wonders when the bruises on his neck will fade. Sherlock helps John get dressed, some of his experiments had been a little rough and had left John in pain. John wears a turtleneck to hide the bite marks which his partner has given him. Sherlock wears his usual; black pants, a dressy shirt with the top three buttons open, a blue scarf, and his black coat.

"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock yells at him from across the room, "we have to go solve a case!"

"Shut up, Sherlock." Says John in an irritated tone, "You're the one who crippled me."

"Yea," Sherlock looks down at his hands "I would say I am sorry, but I am not. Plus, I know you enjoyed it." Sherlock winks at John, who cannot resist the smile that spreads across his face. "You know me so well, Sherlock." John says as he makes his way across the room. He gives Sherlock's arse a pinch as he stretches up on his tiptoes to kiss him.

As soon as their lips meet, the door to the flat swings opens, revealing a very startled Ms. Hudson.

"Oh dear," she says, "Sorry to interrupt, boys." She doesn't look sorry. Ms. Hudson is practically gleaming with joy and her eyes are glued to the awkward couple who are now standing several feet apart, looking away from each other. John blushes as he scratches the back of his neck, while Sherlock holds his arms against his chest, tapping them nervously with his fingers. Sherlock is the first to move, he steps around Ms. Hudson and begins to walk down the steps. "Let's go, John," He calls back. "We have a murder to solve!" John avoids eye contact as he passes the woman, following Sherlock down the stairs.

Sherlock holds the door open for John to walk though.

X

They step out into the midday sunlight. "Sherlock Holmes is back!" The tall man announces to the world, as he holds up his hands and spins a half circle to face John, who is staring at him open-mouthed.

"Why wasn't Ms. Hudson surprised to see you?" he asks Sherlock. "Did she know you weren't really dead, also?"

"No," replies Sherlock, "I went to her a couple of days ago to give her the letter. She was quite surprised to see me!" Sherlock laughs.

"So you told her not to tell me?" John questions, "Why?"

"I wanted to surprise you." Says Sherlock with an innocent smile, nudging John's shoulder lightly. He hails a taxi, once again holding the door open for John to enter before him. "I think I did a pretty good job of that." He winks at John as he slides in after him and closes the cab door.

"St. Bart's Hospital." He tells the cabbie.

"Sherlock," begins John, "why didn't you tell me earlier, that you…you know…"

"What John," replies Sherlock, "that I love you?"

"Yea," John says blushing, "that."

"Separation makes people realize things, John," Sherlock admits, "I _was_ going to tell you. I wrote it in the letter remember? The last line…"

"Yes, Sherlock," he says "but why not _before_ you 'died'?"

"I may have been…afraid…" Whispers Sherlock, looking down at his hands while his face burns red, "afraid you did not feel the same way. You are hard for me to deduce, although I had my suspicions." He winks at John. "So I wrote you that note, knowing I would see you again eventually, but giving you enough time to get over it if you did not feel the same way. I had left it on your bed for you to see when you came home, but I was scared. I had Molly go to our flat and take the letter before you could read it. I was scared of your reaction, John."

The cabbie eyes the two men through the rearview mirror. Sherlock shoots the man a disapproving glare. He looks away, watching the road as they pull up to the hospital. Sherlock throws the cabbie some money, then they exit the taxi. The driver continues to watch them as he drives away. Neither Sherlock nor John notices the scathing eyes following them as they walk to the hospital.

The two men enter the building, get on the elevator, heading for the morgue. Molly greets them eagerly, avoiding eye contact with the detective. Sherlock's eyes pass over her, deducing. _Lipstick, rosy cheeks, sweaty palms, obviously still not over me_.

John ignores their awkward body language, turning his attention toward the body lying on the metal slab. He pulls the white sheet off the body, bending down to observe it closer. She does not look older than thirty, with dirty-blonde hair and smooth, unwrinkled skin.

"She was found on the tracks, head bashed in. Her name is Sherry Ornaudy." Molly explains in a flat tone. Both Sherlock and John ignore her. John has already read the story in the paper, while Sherlock had already deduced where she was found, and how she _really_ died.

"Eh hem-" interrupts Sherlock, "may I have a look?" he asks, smiling at John.

John moves aside, giving Sherlock a slight pat on his shoulder, "Sure."

The detective moves around the body. John knows Sherlock probably sees more than he does. Sherlock observes her, nodding his head, tapping, prodding, and sliding his fingers over parts of her body. Remembering the night before, John is weirdly jealous of the dead woman, lying still on the table.

"Can I see what she was wearing?" he asks, looking up from the woman.

"Yea," says Molly, shuffling over to a cabinet and pulls out a plastic bin. She opens the lid and pulls out several pieces of clothing, the woman's shoes, and purse. Sherlock rummages through the pile of material. He opens her purse, digging through it until he finds her phone. He is quickly able to break the passcode. Sherlock throws his hands in the air.

"I've got it!" exclaims the detective as he looks up from his little project, he begins explaining his deduction, "So this woman was found at 5:00 a.m. by a homeless man living in the subway. Her medical report says she died around 3:00a.m. Now, what would she be doing so late at night, a woman by herself? She is obviously wealthy, judging by her clothes, phone, and appearance. Plastic surgery, dyed hair, manicured fingers and toes. Diamond engagement ring in her _back pocket_, now why would she take that off, pretty pricy to lose, don't you think?" Sherlock doesn't wait for an answer, "She is obviously having an affair. And finally to the murder, judging by the scuffs on her shoes, she was pushed, scraping her shoes against the floor as she stumbled over. Her head was not bashed in by the murderer, it simply cracked as she hit the tracks. She did not die instantly upon impact, there is dirt under her nails, and they are slightly bloody and peeling off, her knees are scraped raw. I really don't know why you didn't catch this earlier, Molly." He ignores the disapproving look she gives him, "She crawled across the tracks, dragging herself. Now, I've checked her phone. She had plans to meet with her friend at 9:00p.m., but she never made it, hence the text from her friend desperately asking where she was. I believe Sherry skipped out on her friend so that she could meet her lover. So this woman somehow found her way to the subway, maybe she was led there, I haven't quite gotten that far. So what we basically have here is a woman from a wealthy family, a secret lover, and a worried friend. Someone wanted Sherry dead, I do not know why, but I assure you, I will find out!"

Sherlock takes a moment to capture his breath. The other two watch him with astounded eyes. Molly's mouth is slightly open in a silent gasp.

"Well," Sherlock asks impatiently, "what do you think?"

"Amazing!" John throws his arms up and slaps them back to his sides, "Brilliant as always."

"I appreciate your compliments, John." Sherlock says rolling his eyes, "but I was talking about the murder. All of the clues add up, do you have any input?"

"Uh," John stutters, "I think you just about covered it all."

Both Molly and John feel extremely awkward. No matter how much John cares for Sherlock, he cannot stand his boasting. Sherlock is a peacock, fanning his tail in search for mates. Sherlock's mates are, in this case, admirers. He smirks at John, slipping him a wink. Molly doesn't appear to notice, and if she did, she doesn't say anything.

Sherlock begins to walk to the door, cutting between John and Molly.

"I'm on fire!" he pushes the doors open and leaves the mortuary.

XI

John runs down the stairs after Sherlock. It takes him several steps to keep up with the taller man's long stride. Sherlock turns on John.

"Would you like to go out for dinner?" he asks happily. John knows he is excited to be back on a case.

"Yea, 'course," John replies, "Where do you want to go?"

"Tapas Brindisa?" Sherlock looks excited. _Our first real date!_

John hails a cab.

When they arrive at the restaurant, they sit at a table by the window. A taxi drives by. The waiter places a candle between them, eyeing the two men carefully.

"Nice and romantic, ey?" he asks them, as he straightens up, putting his hands on his hips.

"I'm not gay!" John says in an aggravated tone, both the other men ignore him.

"Yes I suppose," Sherlock says, unamused, "What are you implying?"

The waiter laughs, "I'm not implying anything. Now, what can I get you to drink?"

"Can I have a glass of champagne?" asks Sherlock.

"Same here." Replies John.

He leaves them to get the drinks. Sherlock and John stare at each other, neither of them wants to break eye contact with the other.

"So," Sherlock says as he breaks the connection, "What was that, Mr. 'I'm Not Gay' Watson?"

"What?" John looks at him with confused eyes.

"You said you aren't gay…" Sherlock's eyebrows pinch together, his face growing hot.

John takes Sherlock's hand under the table, caressing it gently, "Sherlock, you know how I feel about you. I care. I really, really care. But do we really need to go around telling people that we are lovers?" John's eyes are like melting chocolate.

Sherlock shakes his head, "I suppose it would be safer for us if people are not aware of our emotional ties. I don't want anyone to try and hurt you to get to me."

"Ditto." Says John as he taps the tip of Sherlock's nose with his fingertip.

A cab drives by.

XII

11:00 p.m.

On the other side of London, a taxi parks at the entrance to an apartment building, allowing the rider to exit. The cab drives away, melting into a sea of traffic.

2:00 a.m.

The same taxi stops again, this time no rider gets out. The driver walks down the dark alley. His Italian shoes clicking against the cobblestone, slick from rain. He turns down another silent street, walking swiftly, pulling his dark hood over his head. Passing quiet houses. The man stops before a warehouse, the front door is locked. He walks around to the back where he finds an unlocked door. Slowly, he turns the nob, the door creaks as he opens it slowly.

"Close the door." Says a growling voice.

The cabbie shuts the door silently. He hears the click of a magazine being loaded into a gun. The lights flip on, blinding the man momentarily. He turns his face slightly to look at the man who is holding him at gunpoint. He holds his hands up in a sarcastic sign of surrender.

"Now, now," says the cabbie, "are you really going to shoot me, Nigel? Or are you going to take me to _him_?"

"What business do you have?" asks Nigel.

"I have news," says the other man, a sly smile spreading across his face, "news that he will most definitely want to hear."

"Very well." says Nigel, lowering the gun, "Follow me."

Nigel leads him down a million halls. The passage is so twisted, the cabbie is not sure how Nigel is able to navigate through it without getting lost. Finally, they stop at a room, from which he can hear a piano playing, a low dark tune. The melody breaks as the two men enter. The room is dimly lit. There is a desk, on which there are files, sheet music, and several lit candles. A piano stands in the furthest corner of the room. A man walks from the piano and sits in the armchair behind his desk, crossing his legs. He is dressed in a black tailored suit with a blood red tie. His hair is slicked back, fingers tapping on the sides of the chair as he stares at the men with condescending eyes.

"Sir," says Nigel "I found this man at the door, he claims to have new of the upmost importan-"

The man raises his hand to silence Nigel. His black eyes glued to the cabbie.

"Leave." Says the dangerous man, giving his wrist a sharp flick. "No, not both of you. Moran, you stay."

Nigel leaves the room slightly disgruntled. The black-haired man stands, gesturing for the cabbie to come closer. He holds out his hand to the other man, as if to formally introduce himself, instead, he pulls Moran into a tight embrace.

"It's good to see you again, old friend." He says, breaking the embrace with the cabbie.

He outstretches his hand, motioning for Moran to take a seat in the armchair. While, he himself sits on the edge of the piano.

"Let's talk business!" says the dark man, clapping his hands together.

"Well," begins Moran, "I have news, not good news, but news."

"Go on then." Says the other man, his voice is smooth, "Just give it to me straight Doc, how long do I have left to live?" he smirks.

"Its Holmes," says Moran, tensing as he sees the black eyes grow hungry at the mention of the name, "he is back."

"Well, well, well." Says the man, pursing his lips, his voice is a hiss, "That is stinky news."

Moran is silent, waiting for the man to continue. More silence follows. The man's long fingers trail across his forehead, smoothing the lines of stress. He pinches the bridge of his nose and leans his head back.

"What am I going to do with you, Mr. Holmes?" he says in a snake's voice.

"Well, I also know from close observation that Mr. Holmes has, oh shall I say, a partner?" Moran tells the man. This news sparks the viper's interest.

"A partner?" says the man skeptically, "of what kind?"

"It seems as though he has fallen for Mr. John Watson." He cringes.

The man covers his mouth to stifle a laugh, "Oh, now _that_ is interesting news." The man sits down on the piano bench and begins to stroke the keys. "I ought to pay Mr. Watson a visit sometime."

Moriarty begins to play a familiar tune, as he sings in the voice of a demonic child,

"It's raining,

Its pouring,

Sherlock is boring.

I'm laughing,

I'm crying,

Sherlock is dying."

_I am coming for your heart, Mr. Holmes. This time I _will _burn it. That is a promise. _

XIV

3:00 a.m.

After a long night of drinks, a drunken Sherlock and John stumble back into 221B. They trip up the stairs, holding each other as they fall into their flat. Sherlock pulls John up by his shoulders, trying to steady him as well as himself. John leans into the taller man, his fingers clutching at his chest. He grips Sherlock's collar and pulls him into a sloppy, inebriated kiss. Together they clamber to the Sherlock's bedroom, undressing each other along the way.

They fall back onto the bed, Sherlock hovering over John, snogging him passionately. The men begin another perfect night. The sparks and the magic are slightly dulled by their intoxicated bodies and minds, but they don't care as long as they can be with each other.

Afterwards they cuddle in each other's arms, their legs intertwined under the duvet. Sherlock traces John's body with his light fingertips, never wanting to forget him. John's strong neck, toned arms, his chest like a brick wall which crumbles so easily under Sherlock. Most of all, he loves the way John feels, pressed against him. Sherlock can feel his heart fluttering in his chest. John's skin is warm, like he is pressing himself against the sun. Sherlock wants to spend his life with this man. But, the rest of the night is all they have.

5:30 a.m.

No one hears him. Like a ghost, he enters the flat. The intrusion is like that of a cat, his feet making no sound as he walks up the stairs and down the hallway to Sherlock's room. A phantom. Into the still silence of the night, he disappears again, taking Sherlock's heart with him.

8:00 a.m.

Sherlock rolls over in his bed. With his eyes closed he reaches out, searching for his little soldier. Nothing. Next to him, the bed is cold. His eyes snap open as he sits up, looking at the empty space next to him.

"John?" he calls

No response.

"John," he calls again "John, where are you?" he hops out of bed, slipping on his robe as he walks across the room. He leans out the door, calling down the stairs "John?"

Still no response. Fear starts to boil in Sherlock's stomach. He descends the stairs quickly, finding the living room empty. John isn't in the kitchen either.

_Maybe John went to the market._ Sherlock reassures himself. He lowers himself into his armchair, folding his hands under his chin, thinking. _But, what if I did something wrong? What if John is overwhelmed? Surly he will come back. He has to. He loves me. Right? _

Sherlock waits for John a little longer, calling his cellphone, no answer. Sherlock's stomach begins to sink farther. Exhaling loudly, he presses his fingers to his temple. Sherlock walks into the kitchen to make some tea to calm his stomach. He notices a note taped to the refrigerator. Carefully, he rips the note off the door. As he reads it, his hands grow sweaty, blood rushing from his face leaving it ghostly pale. He tips backwards, barley catching himself before hitting the floor. Sherlock feels as if he is choking, he cannot breath.

_**It's raining,**_

_**Its poring,**_

_**As Sherlock was snoring,**_

_**A mouse snuck in,**_

_**And stole his friend,**_

_**John may not wake up in the morning.**_

**Better come save your lover, Mr. Homes. You have 24 hours.**

_**X.**_

**-JM**

His hands break his fall. Sherlock leans back against the cabinet, face expressionless as he drops the letter on the floor next to him. Moriarty is back_. How is he back? And now he has John, it is all my fault._ Tears begin to stream down his face. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. There is no time to cry, I need to find John before it is too late.

Sherlock runs back to his room, taking his phone from the bedside table. He dials his brother's number.

"What do you want, little brother?" asks an annoyed Mycroft Holmes.

"I-I need your help." Admits Sherlock "John…he was taken by Moriarty."

"Oh, I see." Smirks his brother, "So the villain finally found a way to break the invincible Sherlock Holmes. Glad to see you finally admit your feelings for the man. Although, everyone already expected it."

"Shut up, Mycroft!" yells Sherlock, into the receiver, "I really need your help. I have to find John before 8:00 tomorrow morning. Moriarty is going to kill him…"

"Stop whining like a little girl, Sherlock." says Mycroft in a biting tone, "Just tell me what you want."

"Can you get me surveillance tapes from every street within a 15 mile radius of our flat?" asks Sherlock in a panicky voice.

"Easy." Replies Mycroft, "I'll have them to you by 7:00 tonight."

"Thank you." Sherlock says "I really mean that."

Mycroft hangs up the phone.

Sherlock gets dressed, slipping on his black coat. He rushes out of the flat. Examining the door for any signs of forced entry. Nothing. Then, he pays a visit to Ms. Hudson, who says she has not seen or heard anything. Tears well in her eyes as she makes Sherlock promise to do whatever he can to bring John safely home.

"I will try my best, Ms. Hudson," says Sherlock.

She gives him one last tight hug before reentering her flat. Sherlock rushes from 221B and out on to the city street.

_I'm coming, John. I will find you, I promise. _

XV

A man sits, tied to a chair in a dark room, a blindfold over his eyes. The only light is coming from a dim bulb hanging above his head. A door creeks open, waking the man form his comatose state. John tries to twist in his chair, wanting to see who has entered the room. A figure steps out of the shadows in front of him. Although John cannot see, he turns his head to the faint sound of heals clicking against the stone floor, moving closer.

"Where am I?" he demands, pulling against the ropes that bind him.

"Oh stop fussing, Mr. Watson," says the figure.

John recognizes the voice. The sound has haunted his dreams, a cackling laugh as he watched his friend jump from the roof over and over again. Every night for three years.

"Moriarty." Says John, terror in his voice.

"Very good, John!" says Moriarty, lifting the blindfold so that John can see. "You are getting better at these guessing games." He scoffs.

Jim is wearing a deep red suit, with a black shirt underneath. He has a golden tie tucked inside his blazer. His hair is slicked back, eyes burning with excitement. His game has only just begun.

"Why are you doing this?" John asks, "If you are trying to get to Sherlock, it will never work. The man barely acknowledges my existence-"

"Oh quite the contrary, John," he smiles slyly, "I think, given his new interest in you, he will be practically _tripping_ over himself to save you."

"How do you…" John trails off, his voice choking in his throat.

"I have eyes and ears around London, John." The man smiles evilly, he bends down to whisper in his ear, "I see _everything_."

John struggles against the ropes, "If you hurt him I swear to God, I will-"

"You'll what, John?" Moriarty throws his head back in laughter, "Are you _threatening_ me? Aren't you the one tied up? And also, if it wasn't for Sherlock's feelings for you," he leans in close to John "He wouldn't be endangering his life. How does it feel knowing that you will be responsible for the death of Sherlock Holmes?"

John is silent. He is right, if Sherlock did not have feeling for John, then Moriarty would have no leverage to ensnare Sherlock. John wishes he could reach Sherlock, to tell him not to come. _Sherlock's life is so much more valuable than mine_, thinks John. Moriarty is watching John as his expression changes, shock, horror, misery, longing.

"Well, Johnny Boy," says the snake, slithering towards the door, "I think I am going to go wait for your boyfriend's arrival. I have a great surprise planned for him." The door closes behind him. The light bulb flickers, then with a pop, it burns out. John is left tied to the chair, in the pitch black room.

"Sherlock, please." John whispers, knowing Sherlock is far away and cannot hear him, "Please do not save me."

XVI

6:00 a.m.

Sherlock has been up all night trying to figure out where Moriarty has taken John. In desperation, he dials Molly's cellphone number. _Please pick up, I'm running out of time_. He hears a click and Molly's voice on the other end.

"Molly!" He yells into the phone, "I need your help."

"Sherlock?" she asks, "Why? What's wrong? You do realize its six o'clock in the morning?"

Ignoring the last question, Sherlock chokes back tears as he explains to her what has happened in the past few hours. Silence comes from the other line.

"Molly, are you still there?" He asks impatiently, thinking maybe she has fallen asleep.

"Yea." She yawns.

"Has anyone suspicious been to the hospital, asking about me or John?" he demands

"No," Molly answers, "but I overheard someone talking on the phone, about the woman found in the subway. Said she was part of some kind of plan. I heard your name come up a few times…"

Sherlock breathes in sharply, "Molly, you need to tell me exactly what you heard."

"Well," she starts, "I can't really remember everything they said. But it was something along the lines of 'Sherlock was here, looking at the woman. Tell Sebastian to inform the boss.'"

_Sebastian_. There is only one 'Sebastian' Sherlock can think of. He is the only one of Moriarty's snipers that has alluded him. Sebastian is a messenger, but where had he gotten the message? Someone who would have overheard him and John during a private moment. Sherlock's mind dashes to Tapas Brindisa, they had held hands under the table. He had thought no one had seen that. _Think Sherlock, think_, his mind screaming at him. Then he remembers, John and he had talked about their love for each other on their way to St. Bart's, the cabbie kept watching them through the rearview mirror…the cabbie is Sebastian Moran.

"Molly, I have to go. Thank you." He hangs up.

Sherlock moves across the flat to John's laptop. He opens his email, a message from Mycroft. Sherlock opens it. There are five surveillance video's attached. Sherlock watches them one by one. A woman walking a dog, someone being pickpocketed, a young child riding his bike. Finally one of them captures his eye. It was at Roland Kerr College, where John had once saved Sherlock's life. At 2:00 a.m. a cabbie exits his vehicle. He is dressed way too formal to be just _any _taxi driver…Sherlock watches him as he flips up his hood and walks down the road. Losing sight of the man as he creeps behind a warehouse. _The warehouse!_ Sherlock knows exactly where it is, he has passed it on many occasions while on cases with John. That is where Moriarty is hiding John.

6:30 a.m.

Sherlock runs out of the flat spinning his long black coat over his shoulders. He hides a gun in the inside pocket. He has to get to the other side of London, by 8:00 a.m., with only an hour and a half. Not many taxis are on the streets yet, too early on a Sunday morning. But, Sherlock manages to find one. The driver is asleep, so Sherlock taps on the glass vigorously to awaken him.

"Bloody hell!" screams the angered driver, as he snaps up.

"Please, sir," Sherlock begs, he doesn't usually beg, "this is extremely important. I need to get to Roland Kerr College before 8:00."

"Just get in." says the annoyed cabbie

Sherlock jumps in the cab, tapping his feet nervously on the floor and the vehicle begins to move down the street. Time goes by quickly, too quickly. The cab turns a corner, a sea of flashing lights greets them. There is a cop directing traffic around the scene of an accident. The cars are moving too slowly. Sherlock tries to see a break in the traffic, there is none. He is panicking, only half an hour left until…

"I have to a go." Sherlock tells the cabbie, throwing him some cash as he rushes out of the cab.

Sherlock runs down the street, yelling at people to get out of the way. He knocks into a woman holding a bag of groceries. "Sorry!" he calls back to the woman as she shakes her fist angrily, yelling profanities at him. He knows he is getting close. _I'm almost there, John_. Just as Sherlock turns another corner, he smacks straight into a man, hitting him like a brick wall. The detective falls back, his head smacking the pavement hard, causing his mind to spin. Sherlock tries to stand up, only to fall over again. His eyes focus on the man who he had hit. He has curly blonde hair, piercing green eyes that are looking at Sherlock if he is a piece of meat. The man is a great deal larger than Sherlock, and everything about him screams danger, from his polished Italian shoes, to his black suit and golden tie. The man reaches down to Sherlock, who is trying desperately to keep his balance as he tries to stand. He grabs Sherlock's arm roughly, pulling him off his feet.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes." Says the man, forcing a syringe into the detective's neck.

Sherlock tries to pull away from his attacker, but his grip is to strong. He feels a swelling cold feeling passing throughout his body. Sherlock goes limp in the man's arms.

XVII

Sherlock awakens to the sound of a voice calling his name. Screaming. He can feel a sharp pain in his arms. Opening his eyes slowly, Sherlock looks up. He is hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, the skin beginning to split as the tight ropes dig into it, allowing warm blood to flow from the raw gashes. A moan escapes his lips as he lulls his head to the side.

"Sherlock!" the voice screams again.

The confused detective scans the room. His vision is still blurry. His gaze falling on the blonde man, hanging the same way as Sherlock, facing him. His eyes focus. _John._

"John!" Sherlock calls to him, "Are you ok? What have they done to you?"

"Sherlock, I'm fine." John says, pain in his voice, "It's a trap. They used me to get to you."

"No really, John?" says Sherlock sarcastically as he looks up at his bound hands, "I had no idea this is a trap!"

"Now is not the time to be a 'smart arse', Sherlock" John scolds.

Sherlock begins to cry, his head falling forward. "I'm so sorry, John." He whimpers, "This is all my fault, if I hadn't fallen in l-"

"Don't you dare say that, Sherlock." John silences him, "It is not your fault Moriarty came back. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I would never trade what we have for anything in the world. _Anything_."

Sherlock wishes he can take John away. To bring him to a safe place. Somewhere far away from all the worries and the troubles of the world. To escape Moriarty and his evil schemes. Sherlock owes it to John. If it weren't for him, John would not be here. If they had never been flat-mates, or even introduced. Sherlock would still be living the lonely life which he had grown accustom to. John would be safe, probably be settled with a wife and children.

The men are silent, staring across the room at each other. The door opens, a sliver of light pierces the dim room. John and Sherlock watch as three men enter. The first is Moriarty, followed by Moran, and the man who had abducted Sherlock. Moriarty struts over to Sherlock, starting at him with his soulless black eyes.

"Looks like you made it." Moriarty says, smirking as he tousles Sherlock's curls, "Just in time."

Sherlock jerks his head, trying to bite the talons as they graze his scalp. Moriarty responds to the attack by giving Sherlock a solid smack with the back of his hand. "Don't bite!" scolds Moriarty as if he is reprimanding a pet. In a way, Sherlock is his pet. Moriarty can do whatever he wants with the men as long as they are tied up. "I think someone needs to be punished…" his demonic voice sings.

"Do whatever you want with me." Says Sherlock, accepting his fate.

"Oh but that's no fun." Moriarty pouts, pushing his eyebrows together, "Physical pain is nothing compared to emotional pain." He gives Sherlock a wink, then turns to John. Sherlock and John's eyes meet, panic spreading across their faces.

"Nigel," Moriarty addresses the blonde man, "you know what to do."

Nigel pulls out a serrated knife, stepping toward the helpless man hanging in front of Sherlock. He begins cutting John's clothing away. When John is completely stripped, the man steps away, observing his blank canvas. Then he begins. Nigel holds the knife to John's face, tracing it beneath his eye, across his cheek, down his neck, to John's chest. Gently, he pushes the tip of the knife into John's skin, right below his left ribs. Small beads of blood trickle down the tan skin. A whimper breaks through his lips, silent enough so that Sherlock cannot hear. John has to be strong for Sherlock. He cannot let Sherlock see his pain. Nigel frowns at the puny reaction, then digs the knife into John's left shoulder, where there is already a scar from his previous war wound. John screams as the knife is buried deep in his flesh. Sherlock's reaction is immediate.

"NO!" screams Sherlock. He thrashes against the ropes, kicking out, doing whatever is within his power to stop the torture. Moriarty watches Sherlock struggle, an evil smile spreading across his face. Despite his efforts, Sherlock is unable to help his partner. John continues to scream, his blood trailing down his chest and leg, dripping from his toes. Sherlock shrieks with John. Physical pain has never affected Sherlock, but never in his life has he been so emotionally vulnerable. Moriarty's face splits into a wide grin, he is soaking up Sherlock's misery like a sponge.

"And now, Ladies and Gentlemen," announces Moriarty holding his hands up, "for the grand finale! Sherlock, you better be watching, this is all for you."

Moriarty turns his back to Sherlock, wanting to see the life flit from John's eyes. Nigel raises the knife to John's neck, slowly beginning to pierce the skin. Sherlock is frozen, his gaze meets John's, his eyes unable to form tears. He mouths three words to John, _I love you_. John closes his eyes, letting the unspoken words sink in_. _

_No. No, I will not let this be your end, John. _ Sherlock jerks against the ropes, purposely breaking his left wrist, giving him just enough slack to twist his hands free. He falls to the floor, holding his mangled hand. Sherlock does not let the pain stop him. Moriarty turns around, backing away from the detective who is glaring at him with vengeful eyes. As Sherlock lunges at Moriarty, Nigel jumps in front of him, tackling the detective to the ground.

Sherlock is easily overpowered by the larger man, but unlike Nigel, he has knowledge of the human body's pressure points. With a few prods, Nigel is left motionless on the ground. Sherlock picks the knife from Nigel's still hand, and with a flick of his wrist, he sends it flying across the room and into Moran's forehead. His body collapses on the ground with a dense thud. Then, Sherlock focuses on his next target, although this one may be a little more complicated.

Moriarty is standing behind John, a knife at his throat. "One step closer, Mr. Holmes, and your lover dies."

"Please," Sherlock begs, "don't do this." He takes a step closer.

John whimpers as Moriarty digs the knife into his throat, "What did I say, Holmes?"

"You don't have to do this." Sherlock tries to reason, "Leave John out of this. I'm the one you want, not him."

"But, Sherlock," Moriarty looks at him with puppy eyes, "aren't you enjoying our little game?"

"Moriarty, this is your last chance," the detective threatens, "let John go."

"Or what, Sher?" mocks the man, "What are you going to do to me?"

"I," begins Sherlock, he says the words that had previously been spoken to him, and "I will burn you."

The black eyes stare back at him, "And I will destroy your heart." Answers the man. John gasps as the knife slices a red smile across his throat.

XVIII

"John!" Sherlock yells. Anger floods his mind. All he can think is red. Moriarty stands across from Sherlock, clutching his stomach as waves of laughter wash over him. Sherlock tackles him to the ground, knocking the knife out of his hand, it skids across the floor. The surprised Moriarty grasps at Sherlock's hair, trying to pull him off. At this point, Moriarty's struggles are useless. He has destroyed the only person whom Sherlock has ever loved, and for that he must pay. Sherlock holds him down with his broken hand, while the other reaches for the knife, his long fingers just barely touching the blade. Moriarty cannot fight him off, his hands grope at Sherlock's face, trying to make the detective release him. Sherlock's hand closes around the knife. He takes his time while raising the knife to Moriarty's throat. Fear covers the madman's face as Sherlock thrusts the knife into the soft flesh, all the way to the hilt.

"This time," Sherlock whispers into Moriarty's ear, "stay dead."

Sherlock pulls the weapon from Moriarty's throat, stepping back as the dying man reaches towards him, as if he is begging for help. Sherlock shows as much mercy towards Moriarty, as Moriarty had shown for John. None. His head falls back as he begins to choke on his blood. Sherlock watches him until his breathing stops and he lies still in a puddle of his own deep red blood.

"Sherlock…" moans a voice from behind him.

"John!" Sherlock runs to him, cutting his hands free. John collapses into the detectives arms. Sherlock presses his hands across the gash, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Thanks you," John moans, reaching up to put his bloody hand on Sherlock's face. Longing to feel the same sparks which they had felt during the nights they slept together.

"It- its g-going to be o-ok, John" Sherlock can barely manage the words through his tears. John tries to say something, his voice is so low that Sherlock cannot hear. He leans in closer.

John coughs, blood splattering Sherlock's face. "Don't lie to me, Sherlock." He whispers, closing his eyes.

"No, John!" Sherlock ties his scarf around John's neck, Moriarty missed his jugular, but the bleeding is still severe. "John, stay with me! I'm calling the police." Sherlock runs to Moriarty's body, taking his phone from his pocket. He dials the police, explaining what happened and where they are. Then he hangs up.

"John," Sherlock says, "I have to get you out of here, an ambulance is on its way." Sherlock loops his arm under John's, supporting his weight, "Come on, John." He says as he begins to stumble with John out of the dungeon.

They slowly make their way down the hallway. John is barely conscious, his head lulling back and forth. They reach the exit. Sherlock opens the door with his right hand and they step out into the morning light.

Ambulances are waiting for them outside. John is immediately taken away from Sherlock and placed on a stretcher. Nurses attend to his bleeding. Sherlock tries to follow John, not wanting to let him out of his sight.

"Sherlock, no." says inspector Lestrade, placing his hands on Sherlock's chest to hold him back, "They will take care of John. Let's have the nurses take a look at that hand, shall we?"

Sherlock watches John being loaded into an ambulance and driven away. He reaches out to John, who is so far away from him now. Sherlock wants to be with John, to make sure he is safe.

"Sherlock," repeats the inspector, finally getting his attention, "Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"Ok," Sherlock resigns, as John's ambulance disappears round a former, lights flashing. Sherlock allows the nurses to take him into an ambulance to look at his hand. He is given a shock blanket and large amounts of sedatives to keep him calm. Sherlock is unconscious by the time the ambulance arrives at the hospital.

XIX

Sherlock awakens to the sound of his heart monitor. The quiet beeping undulating through the hospital room. His left hand feels heavy, he lifts it to observe the cast. Turning his hand to get a look at it from different angles. There is a knock on his door and a nurse walks in.

"Oh," she says smiling, Sherlock notices she is very pretty, large breasts, thin lips, thick auburn hair, "Mr. Holmes, good to see you're awake." She walks over to his bedside, checking his monitor and the tubes that are protruding from his arms. She scribbles something on her clipboard. "Your vitals look fine, you should be ready to go home tomorrow." She smiles happily at him.

"How long have I been here?" he asks.

"Two days," she answers.

"What about…" Sherlock begins, but he cannot finish. He is too afraid to know the answer.

The nurse knows what he means, "Mr. Watson is in critical condition." she says frowning. "He lost an awful lot of blood."

Sherlock tries to swallow, but his throat is dry. Instead he asks, "Can I see him?"

The nurse smiles, "Of course." She says, placing the clipboard on the bedside table. She unhooks Sherlock from the machines, then carefully helps him stand. Sherlock hates to be seen so weak, but he honestly admits he needs the help. The nurse holds his arm as they walk out of the room and down the hallway to the elevator. She presses the 'up' arrow. The doors open and they step inside. The lift up seems incredible long to Sherlock, his feet tap nervously on the floor. When the doors open, he tries to walk swiftly, until vertigo makes him slow down. The nurse leads him to room 43, allowing Sherlock to enter alone. She stands in the doorway as Sherlock walks to the bed.

John looks so peaceful, apart from the bandages that are around his chest, wrists, and neck. His eyes are closed, tubes run up his nostrils helping him breathe. His heart monitor keeping a steady rhythm. His chest rising and falling.

"Oh, John," Sherlock whispers as he touches John's cheek lightly with his fingertips, "please, don't leave me." He leans down kissing the tip of his nose. He stands next to John for several long minutes before the pain becomes to unbearable and he has to leave.

Sherlock walks out of the room, not wanting to see John like this. He grabs the nurse's arm and is escorted back to his room. Sherlock's mind is buzzing. His guilt for what happened to John is overwhelming. He does not sleep that night, for fear that his unconscious mind will replay the horrors which took place in Moriarty's dungeon.

The next morning, Sherlock's cast is taken off and he leaves the hospital.

XX

Sherlock stands outside of 221B. He slowly opens the door and continues up the stairs, Ms. Hudson is waiting for him in his flat. She tries to comfort him, but Sherlock will not listen. Eventually, she gives up and leaves.

Sherlock is harassed by calls all day. Lestrade wanting to know if there is anything he can do to help. Molly asking if he wants to join her for lunch and a cheer-up. Mycroft insisting Sherlock comes and visits him. Sherlock is dead to the outside world. The hospital told him they would call if John woke up, still no word.

The weeks drags on slowly. Often he finds himself in bars, talking to loose women and getting drunk. He does not have the motivation to begin a new case. One morning he woke up on the street twenty miles from his flat. But he doesn't care. What is the point in trying without John? There is still a chance that John will be ok, but Sherlock will not let himself hope. Because of his sentimentality, he got his best friend-_lover_ severely wounded.

Sherlock sleeps in John's bed, where they had made love for the first time. He hugs the pillow, clutching it desperately as if it is John himself. Each morning he wakes up to rain. Tears from heaven.

9:00 a.m.

Sherlock sits on the hallway floor about to open a bottle of Vodka. He wants to be deaf to the world. He does not want to remember, or feel pain. The phone rings.

"Damn it," he yells "I do not want to leave this flat! Why can't you just leave me to grieve in peace?"

As the phone continues to ring, he throws the bottle of alcohol at the wall. It shatters into a million pieces. Sherlock stands, crunching over the broken glass as he walks to the kitchen to answer his cellphone.

"What do you want now?" he asks, uncaring who is calling.

"This is Angela, from St. Bart's Hospital." Says the monotone voice on the other end. _Angela? Oh the nurse who took care of me and John, of course…_

"Are you calling to tell me that my friend is dead?" Sherlock questions, already suspecting the answer. He feels his heart sink in his chest, throat beginning to swell. Sherlock braces himself for the news.

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Holmes," says the woman, her voice like wind chimes, "Mr. Watson is awake and asking too see you."

Sherlock drops the phone.

"Mr. Holmes?" he hears the woman ask, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock shouts at the phone as he runs from the kitchen to get dressed, "I am so much more than alright!"

XXI

The cab ride to St. Bart's seems incredibly long. As soon as the vehicle stops, Sherlock throws a wad of money at the driver and sprints through the hospital doors. He doesn't bother to check in at the front desk. Eagerly, he jumps on the elevator and heads up to the second floor. When the doors open, Sherlock runs down the hall to room 43. He stands in the doorway, looking at the man lying in the bed. The man stirs.

'Sherlock." John whispers as he opens his eyes. His breathing tube has been removed.

"John." Sherlock says as he moves to the bed, taking John's hand in his own.

Staring into each other's eyes, there are so many things they want to say. Sherlock holds John's face in his hands, leaning down. John leans up in his bed, wincing in pain. His wounds are not quite healed. Sherlock realizes John's dilemma, leaning down farther and pushing John back onto the bed so that he does not have to stretch. Their eyes shut as Sherlock closes the distance between them. Fireworks explode as their lips touch. A sweet innocent kiss, one of love, not lust.

"I thought I was never going to be able to do that again." Whispers Sherlock, opening his startlingly blue eyes to watch John.

"Well," laughs John, "for once the 'Amazing Sherlock Holmes' was wrong!"

"I'm glad I was." Sherlock smiles, bending down for yet another kiss.

A knock on the door interrupts them. "Pardon my interruption," says the Angela, "It's time for your antibiotics and sleeping pills, Mr. Watson." John sits up in his bed, reaching his palm to the nurse. She places the pills into his outstretched palm, giving him a glass of water in the other.

John takes the pills. Then, he leans back in his bed, watching Sherlock. The detective has not shaven in several days, stubble is beginning to grow on what used to be smooth porcelain skin. His eyes are hollow, with dark circles underneath them. The dark curly hair is sticking out in multiple direction, bedhead. And the _smell_. Sherlock smells like cigarettes and alcohol.

"Sherlock," John raises his eyebrow in disapprovingly, "what happened to you while I was unconscious? Why do you look like a homeless man?"

Sherlock can only smile. Still amazed that this man whom he loves with all his heart, is still alive. He doesn't even realize that John has asked him a question. He just stares, wide eyed like a child in a toy store.

"Sherlock?" John asks again, squeezing his fingers tightly to get the detective's attention.

"Hm, What?" Sherlock asks, his face snapping to attention, "Oh, sorry…I've been…" Sherlock is ashamed to answer, "I went undercover for a case," he lies. "I've been investigating the murders of homeless people in London…" he trail off, afraid of John's untrusting eyes. He knows Sherlock is lying.

"Sherlock," John admits, "even if I had… died," he struggles to say the words, "I still want you to live your life, make the most of it, you know?"

Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes looking intensely into John's. "John, you are my life," he sits on John's cot, gently caressing the soldier's hands, "if anything happens to you, if you… die… I will not hesitate to join you in the afterlife."

John is silent. Sherlock continues to stroke his hand. Despite the pain, John pushes himself into a sitting position. Sherlock's eyes are filled with concern for John, who is obviously in a great deal of pain. He observes the bandages around the older man's neck. John sees the guilt in Sherlock's eyes. _Damn it, Sherlock, just be happy I'm alive!_ His right hand reaches for the detectives face, holding his cheek. John pulls Sherlock into another long snog. Sherlock feels John slowly sinking into unconsciousness as the pills kick in. He lies John back in his bed, resting his head gently on his pillow. Seeing enough space, he crawls into the cot with John, wrapping his arms around him. Sherlock is also extremely tired, he falls asleep next to John. Finally together again.

XXII

Early in the morning, a nurse walks in, opening the curtain in the bleak hospital room. The light of the early morning brightens the atmosphere. As she crosses the room, John stirs in the long arms that are embracing him. He tucks in closer to the man. The nurse watches them, smiling. Then, feeling awkward for watching the two men in their private moment, she shuffles out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. The two men continue to sleep.

John's eyes flutter open. Hearing the subtle breathing of the man in his arms, he looks down at Sherlock. His curls brush against John's cheek, his head tucked into his partner's shoulder. John plants a kiss on the top of Sherlock's curly head, closing his eyes and breathing in his familiar smell. Sherlock squirms in the soldier's arms, leaning his head back and opening his eyes.

"'Morning." John smiles, looking at the drowsy Sherlock.

"Goodmorning." Sherlock yawns, pulling himself from John's grip as he sits up, raising his arms above his head to stretch. Sherlock rises from the bed, leaving John watching him with questioning eyes. Sherlock picks up his coat and puts it on, he had left it on the floor during the night. He ran his fingers through his messy hair, turning around to face John.

"Where are you going?" John asks, holding out his hand, wanting Sherlock to take it and stay with him.

"I'm just going to go to our flat," he replies, giving John a reassuring smile, "I have to clean up, I look like a bum."

"That's a good idea," laughs John, relaxing back onto his pillow, "I don't want my detective to be all dirty, if we are going to be sharing a bed…"

"I'll be back soon." Says the tall man, leaning down to give John a kiss on his forehead, "Don't go anywhere." He says sarcastically, "Try and get some sleep, you need your rest."

John's gaze follows Sherlock as he walks from the room. John closes his eyes, imagining his detective is still with him. _He will be back soon_, John tells himself. Within a matter of minutes, John is asleep again.

John awakes to the feeling of warm lips against his cheek. His eyes fly open, starting at the beautiful man standing over him. Sherlock's face hovers just inches above John's. Neither of them can take their eyes off the other. Cerulean blue staring into chocolate brown.

"Hi." says John, is voice merely a whisper. Sherlock smiles back at him, leaning in for another kiss. John can feel Sherlock's tongue gently tracing his bottom lip, asking for entrance. He opens his mouth, welcoming Sherlock. John's hands grab Sherlock's collar, wanting to pull the younger man onto him. Instead, he reaches around Sherlock, grabbing his arse.

"Eh hem" a voice coughs from the doorway. John removes his hand from Sherlock's bum.

Sherlock doesn't have to turn around to know who it is. "Go away Angela." He growls, refusing to break away from John.

"Oh, so I have a new nickname?" Inquires Mycroft, standing in the doorway watching the intimate couple. Sherlock turns around slowly, surprised his brother actually cared enough about John to visit.

"What do you want, Mycroft." Sherlock says, rolling his eyes.

"Just to wish you two the best," He smiles at them slyly, "Now that Moriarty is gone for good, its life a new, isn't it? Not having to hide how you feel?" he says, gesturing to Sherlock and John's hands still clasped together. The two men blush and look at each other from the corners of their eyes. "Well," says Mycroft awkwardly, feeling like a third wheel in the room with the two lovers, "I think I better be on my way. Congratulations, boys."

Mycroft leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock pretends not to notice Mycroft, who took a few seconds to observe the men through the window.

XXIII

For the next several days, John has many visitors. Harry, Molly, Lestrade, Ms. Hudson, and a few of his past girlfriends, whom Sherlock is not particularly fond of. John has received many presents, mostly flowers or 'get well soon' cards. Sherlock thinks the gifts are slightly ridiculous, why would a grown man want flowers?

Sherlock spends all of his free time with John, in the hospital. They go for walks around the small garden to get fresh air and a change of scenery. John's wounds begin to hurt less and less. Scars are beginning to form, leaving the once tan skin slightly discolored. Sherlock doesn't care. No matter what, John will always be the most beautiful human he has ever seen.

Back in the hospital room. John and Sherlock are in deep conversation. The detective sits in a chair next to the soldier's bed, holding his hand while telling him about his latest case. He seems particularly happy today.

"A man was sleeping in his house, doors locked, no sign of forced entry, yet the next morning, his neighbor found him dead. She says the man was on the floor, lying in a pool of his blood, throat slit with a playing card sticking out of it. An ace of hearts to be exact. Isn't this _exciting_?"

"Well," says John, slightly taken aback by the gruesome details, mainly because he has recently had his throat slit, "doesn't that sound like a fun-" John is interrupted by the nurse walking into the room.

Angela looks at John's charts hanging from the foot of his bed, then she raises her eyes, looking back and forth between the soldier and his partner. "Mr. Watson, from the look of your charts, it seems you are free to go."

The men look at each other, eyes wide in excitement. Sherlock has been getting tired of the boring hospital scenery. The nurse walks over to the two lovebirds. "Mr. Holmes, is it ok if you step out for a few minutes while I assist Mr. Watson?" Sherlock nods in response, winking at John as he practically skips out of the room. When the door closes behind him, the nurse begins to help John out of his bed.

"Mr. Watson, I am going to need you to remove your garb and put these on." She hands him a jumper, a pair of khakis and shoes. "Your friend gave these to me, telling me to give them to you. I am not sure how he knew you would be going home today." The nurse turns around, giving John privacy as he begins to change.

John cant help but giggle, "Yea, it's almost like the man can read the future." No wonder Sherlock had seemed so happy earlier… "Ok," says John, the nurse turns around, "I'm all set, get me outa' hear." John eagerly follows the nurse out the door to where Sherlock is waiting for him.

John walks up to Sherlock, embracing him. Even though he doesn't need to, Sherlock is still gentle with John, not wanting to hurt him. The men pull away, looking with longing into each other's eyes, both knowing what the other wants. They turn to the nurse.

"Angela," asks John, glancing quickly at Sherlock, "is light physical activity ok? Or should I take it easy?"

"I think you should be fine," She smiles, watching Sherlock's arm slowly snake its way around John's waist. Then, she addresses Sherlock, "Just don't be too rough with him, ok?"

John blushes while Sherlock answers, "I'll try." He winks down at John.

Sherlock and John walk hand in hand out of the hospital, not caring about the scrutinizing eyes that follow them.

XXIV

The cabbie watches the two men through the rearview mirror, judging them silently. Sherlock and John do not care, they are wrapped up in their own world. The detective enjoys having the eyes of the driver watching them, he wants people to know about their love. There is no one to threaten them anymore. They can express their affection however they please, even though the back of a cab may not be the most appropriate place.

The detective has pulled John across the leather cushion onto his lap. They snog passionately, twisting their fingers through each other's hair. John's hands slide down the detective's neck, making their way to his chest. The right remains on Sherlock's chest, while the left makes its way to his legs, reaching between them, rubbing the inside of his thigh sensually. Sherlock jumps his seat, kicking the back of the cabbie's chair.

"Hey!" the cabbie yells, trying to get control of the swerving taxi, "Watch it. I'm trying to drive!" he glares at the two men, who awkwardly move away from each other to opposite sides of the cushion. John blushes and turns his attention to the scenery outside the window. He takes Sherlock's hand as the cab pulls up in front of 221B. John hands the cabbie the due, thanking him for his patience.

"Let's go, Loverboy." John winks at Sherlock, pulling him from the back seat.

They walk calmly, trying to maintain appearances. The moment the door closes behind them, Sherlock pins John against the wall. The detective's arms are on either side of John, preventing him from escaping, not that he would want to. The tall man leans down, until their faces are only centimeters apart. John's lips part slightly as he stares with awe into the deep blue eyes. The busy world outside the flat continues moving, but the air around the men is still, except for their breathing. Sherlock senses Ms. Hudson's eyes watching them, looking through her thinly cracked door. He ignores her. Sherlock's eyebrows pinch together as he straightens his back. The detective lowers his arms, taking John's hands in his. He leans down, kissing John's cheek. John watches him, wondering why the intensity of the moment has faded. Sherlock leads John up the stairs to their flat. The two men walk hand in hand to Sherlock's bedroom, not saying a word to one another.

"Sherlock…" John begins, trailing off. _Sherlock, what's wrong, did I do something?_ He wants to ask, but Sherlock turns around to face him, beginning to speak.

Sherlock realizes his partner's confusion, giving him a reassuring smile, "The nurse told me to be gentle, John." The innocent smile turns into one of seduction, his eyes burning with longing. The detective slowly walks behind John, watching his every move with hungry eyes. John flinches as long arms curl around him. Pale fingers hold the soldier's hips and dragging him closer into the other man's body. Goosebumps rise along John's skin as he feels Sherlock's warm breath on his neck, whispering just under his ear.

"Do I need to be gently?" the seductive voice inquires, softly nibbling on John's ear. His hands slowly slipping into the front of John's khakis.

"No." John answers, as Sherlock's long fingers wrap around his length. John unbuckles his pants, letting them fall to the ground, as the hands continue to stroke him. "Don't stop, Sherlock." John moans, his head falling back against the tall man's shoulder. He can feel Sherlock, hard beneath his trousers. John wants to touch the detective, to feel him in his hands. Despite his yearning for Sherlock to continue, John turns around, wrapping his arms around his detective. Their lips meet with an explosion of sparks. John pushes Sherlock back onto the bed, straddling him as they hungrily grind against each other, John's hands moving down Sherlock's body. Quickly, he unbuckles Sherlock's belt and pulling off his black pants. He throws them across the room, not caring where they land. Sherlock begins to unbutton John's shirt with shaking hands, as his partner traces his short fingers along the inside of the detective's thigh. Once all the buttons have been undone, John wriggles out of his shirt, it falls to the floor next to the bed.

John doesn't bother with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, he just rips it open. The small circles of plastic pop, some bouncing onto the floor, while others get lost in the sheets of the twisted bed. Soon, the two men are stripped of everything. John places his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, their eyes lock. The soldier pushes the detective back, resting his head gently on the fluffy white pillow. John leans over his partner, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, who opens his mouth slowly, giving John entrance. Their bodies move with their lips, pressing together softly, tongues intertwining, skin caressing skin. John breaks the kiss, his lips shifting their attention to Sherlock's neck. He sucks gently on the warm skin, hoping he leaves bruises on the pale canvas. The soldier's lips move to the detective's ear, nipping it softly.

"I'll see you in a few minutes…" John breathes into the man's ear. He begins to kiss down Sherlock's chest, twirling his tongue over his partner's erect nipple. His tongue traces down the middle of the detective's stomach, to his groin. John places his hands on the inside of Sherlock's thighs, spreading his legs apart. Sherlock trembles as John leaves open mouthed kisses between his legs. John teases Sherlock with his tongue.

"Please, John…" Sherlock whimpers, his hands grasping the sheets, knuckles turning white.

John listens to his lover's request. His mouth closes around Sherlock, who groans loudly in response. John takes several long pulls, sucking Sherlock deep into his throat. The noises of pleasure coming from his partner make John's cock twitch. John can feel the detective tense, about to come. "Not yet, Love." John whispers as he releases Sherlock, who sighs loudly, disappointed in absence of John's lips from around his pulsing erection.

"Trust me," John says, leaving Sherlock for just a few seconds to grab a tube of lubricant from inside his bedside table, "you will enjoy this much more." He pops the lid, before squeezing the gel into his palm, he is interrupted by a hesitant Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock hesitates, waiting for John to look him in the eyes before continuing, "do you think maybe, just this once, that I um…." He doesn't finish, cheeks burning red with embarrassment. "I mean you don't have to if you don't want to but I was wondering if maybe I could-"

"Do you want to fuck me?" John asks, fully open to his partner's questions. Sherlock's curls bounce as he nods his head before looking away quickly. To answer him, John grabs Sherlock by the waist, rolling over so the tall man is on top of him. "Your wish is my command." Whispers the soldier, looking into the blue eyes. The sea before a storm.

Sherlock's eyes are innocent and naïve as leans back, reaching for the lube. John watches as his partner squeezes the gel into his hands, rubbing them together to warm them before slicking his cock. Taking longer than it should, John realizes Sherlock is scared. He tries to look into his eyes, but Sherlock avoids the contact. John sits up, reaching for Sherlock.

"Its ok, Sherlock," John says in a comforting tone, "Just do what I did the first night we…"

"Sound's easy enough…" whispers Sherlock, as he wiggles between John's open legs. "Are you ready?" he asks.

"As ready as I'll ever be." Replies the little soldier, wrapping his legs around his detective's waist.

Sherlock gently pushes into John. The sudden warmth that surrounds Sherlock causes him to moan in pleasure. He gradually begins to thrust. John's fingers twist into Sherlock's curly hair. The detective's hands are on either side of John, supporting his weight while he thrusts his pelvis. John reaches down to his own cock, stroking it in time with Sherlock's thrusts.

"No," Sherlock stops John's hand, taking him into his own hands, "let me."

The thrusts get deeper and longer, until all of Sherlock is inside of his partner. Sherlock throws his head back and lets out a low cry of pleasure. At the same time, John arches is back, following Sherlock into their orgasms. John spills over Sherlock and himself, while he feels his lover coming inside of him. They ride through their orgasms, gasping for breath.

When they are finished, Sherlock leans down to kiss John's soft lips before rolling off of him, pulling out gently. They lie next to each other as their breathing settles. When Sherlock catches his breath, he turns to look at John. The soldier's eyes are closed, a contented smile across his face. Sherlock cannot help but to lean in and kiss is cheek.

"You are amazing, Mr. Holmes." Says John, opening his eyes and rolling onto his side to face his partner.

"So are you." Replies the detective, his ocean eyes staring into the Hershey ones.

"I'll be right back." Whispers John as he wiggles off the bed, Sherlock eagerly waits for his return. John walks back into the bedroom holding a wet towel. He sits next to Sherlock in bed and begins to clean off his stomach. When John is done, Sherlock sits up and takes the towel from him, beginning to rub circles across the tan stomach. John leans back as Sherlock drops the towel onto the floor. The soldier pulls the detective onto his lap, allowing Sherlock to rest his curly dark head on his shoulder.

"I was thinking, Sherlock-" John begins.

"I think quite a lot also." interrupts Sherlock, smiling at John with innocent eyes.

"You didn't let me finish." Continues John, "Have you ever thought about…you know…" he trails off. _Maybe asking this question is not such a good idea_.

"Now that you have me curious," says Sherlock, nuzzling the tips of their noses together, "you _have_ to tell me." John blushes a deep red. _Oh what the hell, I already know he loves me! What's the worst that could happen?_

"Have you ever considered marriage?" the question is simple, but still enough to make the detective fall completely silent, his breath catching in his throat.

"Are you…" Sherlock begins.

"Will you marry me, Sherlock?" John watches Sherlock's emotions run across his face. Worry begins to swell in his stomach as Sherlock just stares at him. Silent.

"Sherlo-" John is interrupted by an earnest kiss.

Sherlock pulls away smiling, "Yes."

A smile of unimaginable happiness spreads across the men's faces as they pull each other into another kiss. When their mouths are sore from kissing, the men lie in bed, holding each other close.

"I love you, John Watson." says Sherlock, "More than _anything_ in the world."

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." Answers John, "You _are_ my world."

The End

Epilogue

The sun is shining brightly in the cloudless sky. Birds chirp happily in the trees, joining in with the violins. Sweet melodies.

A short, blonde soldier dressed in a white tuxedo walks up the aisle. Under the gazebo, a tall dark haired detective in a black tux is waiting for him. He holds his hand out to his partner, who takes it as he joins his lover under the canopy of white and yellow flowers. The ceremony begins.

"Do you, Mr. Watson, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" asks inspector Lestrade.

"I do." Tears of joy well in his chocolate brown eyes.

"And do you, Mr. Holmes, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the inspector asks the taller man.

"I do." An angelic smile spreads across his face.

"You may kiss." Lestrade gestures for them to seal their promise.

Like many times before, the two men lean towards each other. The shorter man stretches up to meet the taller man's lips. But unlike the other kisses, this one seals their promise, to love forever. The kiss ends, and the men stare into each other's eyes, tears of joys trailing down their faces. John puts his left hand on his husband's cheek, the golden band sparkling in the sunlight. Sherlock mouths one word to John, who then mouths it back. _Forever. _

60


End file.
